


plain sight

by mimosapudica



Series: shared looking [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosapudica/pseuds/mimosapudica
Summary: “You gotta find a way to stop the bleeding quick.”-POST-RAW | McDavid 04.01.19Maybe Leon’s a little bitter.





	plain sight

**Author's Note:**

> this is a lot later than i wanted to publish this but..... i have learned... that writing is really hard and it takes ages!! i hope you like this anyways..  
> also, it might be slightly overkill for me to say but, there is very very mild internalised homophobia in this - probably not even "canon-typical" homophobia because it is extremely light. but it is implied, and i understand if that is upsetting in any degree, so i wanted to warn just in case.  
> the description is from [that very very sad post-game](https://www.nhl.com/oilers/video/post-raw--mcdavid-040119/c-67407103).
> 
> edit: both stories in this series have been made into a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636121/chapters/51591859?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false) by the talented Annapods!!!!

Technically, they were eliminated from the playoffs about halfway through their game against Vegas, though they didn’t know it. It felt like longer. While Leon wasn’t actually aware that that particular game would be the night that decided it all mathematically— well, like anyone with working eyes, he’d had a bit of a hunch. Since their dismal slide in January, he’d figured that the end of season wouldn’t be looking too optimistic. Outside looking in, just like last season. At least they’re consistent. 

Maybe Leon’s a little bitter. All the _next year, next year, next year for sure_ — it gets a little boring to say, because it’s just what they said last year. 

There’s bright spots, though. There needs to be. It’s necessary to learn to savour small victories. An important skill to have, in a season where almost nothing has gone right. Post-elimination purgatory is a special kind of miserable, but there’s a funny kind of nihilism in the locker room, as if to say — _well, it’s not as if it could possibly get any worse_. 

They were still, technically, playing meaningful hockey in April, for one. Even if it doesn’t really mean anything, at least it’s kind of passingly amusing. Rieder’s being very good-humoured about his goalless season, too, laughing about how the whole home crowd cheers when he has the puck. And Leon’s getting shots from everyone, the whole team trying to get him to fifty goals on the season. That’s a victory, in itself; maybe not even a small one. It’s nice to have such a clear goal, so late in the season. Might not be the one he wanted, but it’s _something_ ; it’s motivation he desperately, desperately needs. He sure as hell didn’t see himself having even the tiniest of looks at the Richard while Ovechkin’s still around. 

But — still.

The Oilers can’t even muscle up a last hurrah. They’re playing more like the hockey equivalent of beating a dead horse. They throw the next game against Colorado, and it’s certainly hard to find anything to be happy about in a 6-2 loss. The last home game of the season doesn’t go much better, though they do manage to not let in another six goals. 

Ryan’s the one who’s keeping the locker room from checking out entirely. Leon has no idea where he finds the capacity to be so level-headed, particularly with the amount of dumbass trade rumours buzzing around him for the past couple of months. If anyone should be bitter and dejected right now, it’s him — but instead, there he is, telling them all to _hustle, hustle_ for the chance of scrounging a point in fucking April.

It goes without saying, then, that Connor’s miserable and completely terrible at hiding it. He’s not going on quite the inhuman point rampage that he went on this time last season, for one, which he sees as some kind of personal failure. It’s not making it easier that the press is always particularly cruel, this time of year. Well — maybe cruel is the wrong word. It’s easy to get that impression, though. It’s like everyone is circling, waiting for Connor to lose it, wondering what will be the last straw before he has some spectacular outburst in an interview and they finally have something bad to write about him. They underestimate his patience — and lack the knowledge that if Connor _did_ lose it, he’d explode inwards, not outwards. He’s like that.

Leon’s bad habit of reading the comments on online articles is also feeding the uneasy feeling that the people around him aren’t going to be there for a lot longer. Some rumours are slightly more credible than others, and Leon’s not a paranoid person, but he’s also not stupid. Things are changing, because things always change. He’s used to trades and call-ups and personnel changes — who isn’t, at this point — but it’s never pleasant in the moment. It’s hard to build chemistry when you’re not certain who your linemates are going to be, and it’s hard to _want_ to build chemistry when your teammates are going to be different next season, anyway. Why bother? 

All of it — the lack of conviction, the uneasiness, the agitation — is making the end of the season drag out much longer than it should. It’s not helping, then, that Leon has a suspicion that Connor’s avoiding him.

It’s very hard to go about avoiding someone when you work, travel, and train together, but Connor is very good at being inaccessible. It comes with the territory. Connor’s always got some kind of media thing, or a session with some specialist trainer, or some kind of sponsorship meeting. He’s busy to the point that if Leon were to actually say to someone — “I think Connor’s avoiding me,” — they would ask how he even knows the difference. But he knows. 

The time they’re together is different, is the thing. If Leon scores, Connor just… mills around, ambles to the bench, when usually — before — he’d practically throw himself at Leon, full of delight. Or, when Connor scores and Leon’s on the ice, if he skates up to congratulate him, Connor will focus on anyone else, or leg it back to the bench. If they’re both first to practice before anyone else turns up, Connor suddenly has to take a call. Connor doesn’t talk to him in warmups, really, or in post-game workouts, and he sleeps on flights, which he never used to do. Connor’s taking his car everywhere, too, instead of ever texting Leon to pick him up. Connor barely texts Leon at all, these days. 

It’s nothing, though. Really. It’s trite and small and stupid and Leon only cares so much because he has nothing better to do. Reading too much into it, or whatever. 

He’s stepped back, regardless; stopped texting Connor first, stopped hanging around after practice seeing if he wants to hang out. He doesn’t want to overstep and offend Connor, somehow, and risk potentially ruining their on-ice connection; the one thing still working for the Oilers. He’s still passing to Connor, for what it’s worth.

It’s not worth much.

* * *

They get to Calgary mid-afternoon of the day before the last game of the season, just for the sake of getting settled a little early. The loss to the Sharks didn’t feel great, but the mood is beginning to lift; one more game, and they’re done. Despite scoring the only two Oiler goals in the last game, Leon barely has the capacity to feel happy about it. The anticipation of making it to fifty has him champing at the bit a little; he almost wishes they didn’t have a day off. He knows he can do it. If he’s shown he can do anything this season, it’s score goals. He _knows_ he can do it, he just… wants to have done it already. 

Leon would love to say it’s making him more focused, not less. Instead, he keeps drifting off in practice, much to the annoyance of the trainers. It’s a long practice, or it feels like one. He keeps picturing himself scoring that goal, the triumphant burst of relief. He also keeps picturing himself missing every single shot he takes. He’s gone off the post in his head about a million times.

“Is everything okay with you and Davo?” Ryan asks, out of nowhere, while they’re milling around the boards in line to start a shooting drill.

“What?” Leon replies. “Uh, sure. Why?”

Ryan shrugs — “ _I_ dunno. Thought something seemed a little off with you two and I’d wondered if you’d fought or something, that’s all.” he says.

“What do you mean, off?” Leon asks, frowning a little. “Did he say something to you?”

“No, no. No, you just haven’t seemed as — you know, as friendly,” Ryan says, vaguely waving his gloved hand in the air, perhaps to represent the nebulous concept of friendship. “I don’t know. Forget it, I guess. I was just wondering. Glad to hear everything’s alright.”

“Yeah, uh, don’t worry about it,” Leon says. “Uh, are you guys — you’re fine?” 

“Yeah, I think we’re good.” Ryan laughs, kind of forced. “I mean, I’m sure you know sometimes Connor isn’t the, uh, easiest to be around.”

“Can you blame him, I guess,” Leon says, mildly. 

“Oh yeah, no, of course,” Ryan says. “I just wanted to be sure that you guys hadn’t fought or something.” He pauses, looks thoughtful for a moment. “I just… don’t think he’s that close with a lot of people.” 

Ryan doesn’t explain what he means by that, and Leon doesn’t ask.

“We’re not that close,” Leon says. 

They’re both watching Connor, now, watching him swoop in on Koskinen with an effortless glide. The way he carries the puck barely sparing it a look, like it’s just an afterthought, eyes fixed on Koskinen’s rising blocker. They all watch him score by whipping the puck right around with the toe of his stick and tucking it just behind Koskinen’s ankle, where he flew too far out of the crease to stop it. Klefbom wolf-whistles from the other side of the ice, and Connor shakes his head when he skates back to him and Larsson, laughing a little. 

Watching Connor skate — really, full-tilt _skate_ — is always slightly unbelievable. How precise and tidy each step is, how impossible his balance. There’s nothing like it. Leon half-believes he could pick Connor’s stride out of the grooves in the ice. 

* * *

After practice, Leon goes to a special teams meeting and almost falls asleep, gets an early dinner with Nursey, then goes to a meeting with his agent at his management’s Calgary offices.

His agent isn’t completely sold on him going to the World Championships. Mainly, he cites potential injuries from overwork. Liut points, particularly, to a recent run of games where he played just over twenty-six minutes each night. 

“You’re going to wear yourself right out,” Liut says, slightly exasperated. “Over a hundred points on the season — and on average, the only forward in the league doing harder minutes than you a night is McDavid. Do you really think that this is a smart idea?”

“I don’t feel worn out,” Leon says. It’s not _completely_ untrue. “I mean — hundred points, whatever. Kucherov’s probably going to play another two months, isn’t he, so. Points don’t really factor into it.”

“Do you want to go that badly?”

Leon shrugs. “I’m building momentum. It can’t hurt.”

“Yes, it can. If you do something stupid and hurt yourself —” 

“We have a long offseason, don’t we,” Leon says, a little clipped. “I’ll have plenty of time to get better.”

* * *

When Leon steps out of the meeting, it’s bitter and dark outside, with just a little bite of wind. He pulls his jacket on tighter and checks his phone. It’s already nearly ten. He has a missed call from his dad, and a text from Ryan. 

_Long ass meeting! Room 244 if you want to chill for a bit, we’re playing cards_

Leon walks back to the hotel, and calls his dad back on the way. It is a spectacularly short conversation; neither he nor his dad like to waste time, and it’s early in Germany. _Are you going to Worlds_ — probably, _are you flying in to Prague or Cologne first —_ Prague, _who’s starting in net tomorrow —_ don’t know, _whatever happens, your mother and I are very proud of you_ — thanks, good luck, bye. 

The walk takes almost an hour longer than anticipated — Leon’s not very familiar with Calgary to begin with, particularly on foot — and by the time he gets to the hotel, his feet are starting to severely protest. Briefly, the idea of playing cards and talking shit sounds like too much effort, but he eventually figures he might as well decompress. 

When he gets to room 244, though, “ _we_ ” ends up being just Ryan and Connor. Ryan’s cross-legged up on the end of the bed, and Connor’s got one leg drawn up and one leg hanging off the side where he’s leaning against the wall. They’re playing a lazy game of Shithead, apparently, judging by the arrangement of face-up and face-down cards, and by Ryan’s sour expression. The TV is on, but the audio’s very low, barely even a buzz.

“And just _what_ time do you call this, young man?” Ryan says.

“Meeting ran late,” Leon says, waving his hand. “Who’s winning?”

“Not counting,” Connor says, cards in his lap, “but probably me.” 

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fraud. Are we dealing you in?” Ryan says.

“No, no. I’m honestly kind of tired, I might call it a night —”

“Come _on._ Stay,” Ryan looks up from his cards, now, “shoot the shit with us, at least. It’s end-of-season-eve. And everyone else is already asleep.”

Ryan actually looks quite tired, too — Leon’s surprised that he’s up. But he understands why. It’s that last-day feeling. The past few months Leon’s been nurturing the private desire to see it all over already, but now it’s finally over, he doesn’t want it to end. As gruelling as the regular season is at its best, and as shitty and miserable at its worst — he always, always misses it, during the summer. A kind of preemptive nostalgia sets in when the weather starts to change; the season’s nearly over, and the other half of his life is about to start.

Well, not _quite_ yet, since he has the all-clear to go to Worlds now, should he like. But it’s not as if Worlds lasts for six months, non-stop, and consumes all of his brain space. 

“Okay, sure,” Leon says. “Don’t bother dealing me in. I don’t think I can count right now. I’m so fucking tired.”

“That’s why I’m winning. Davo’s eyes aren’t even open,” Ryan says, tossing a card. “Candy from a baby.”

“I’ll kill you,” Connor mumbles. 

Leon dumps his jacket on the arm of the little hotel armchair and sinks into it sidelong, resting his head on his jacket and slinging a leg over the opposite arm. He didn’t realise how tired he was until he sat down. He’d taken his phone out, with the full intention of mindlessly scrolling Instagram or look at football highlights or something, but he can’t even be bothered to unlock it. 

“You feeling good about tomorrow?” Ryan asks. “As long as you score and Gaudreau doesn’t, I’ll be happy.”

“You will?” Leon has to laugh.

“Petty victory’s better than nothing at all, bud.” 

Connor snickers, but doesn’t say anything. Leon is slightly embarrassed by how quickly he glances up just to catch the edge of his smile. 

_What the fuck is wrong with me,_ he thinks, and sinks lower into the chair. 

“And _no_ scrapping this time,” Ryan disciplines, with the tone of a beleaguered babysitter.

“But it’s the Battle of Alberta,” Leon whines. 

“Not much of a battle, the way you fight.”

“Tell me what to do, then, zero career fights.” 

“ _Two_ , actually.” Ryan tuts. 

“Jesus. Forgive me. How many years ago were they? Are they in colour anywhere?” 

Connor laughs, at that. Leon doesn’t look up, that time, but still feels a little warmer.

* * *

“Okay, fellas, I’m done for the night,” Ryan says, getting to his feet after three more rounds and several near-shouting matches. “Don’t stay up too late. And if either of you are late tomorrow, you’re both scratched.” 

“Night,” Connor says, tidying up the cards.

Leon is about to say _wait, where are you going_ before he connects the dots. He’d made himself quite at home thinking this was Ryan’s room, but it’s Connor’s. _Idiot._ When the door clicks shut, it suddenly feels very quiet, and he feels very foolish. Leon draws himself up with his hands, rubbing his eyes; he’d dozed a little, at some point. Leon is struck with the sinking feeling that Ryan did not believe him for one second when he said he and Connor were fine. 

What a cheap trick. 

He should leave, though. He really should. He expects Connor will just exaggeratedly yawn and give Leon a polite reason to make himself scarce. The last time he and Connor were alone like this — purposefully alone, not waiting on the rest of the team to show up — they were in his car, and he had kissed Connor. More importantly, Connor had kissed him. It’s surprisingly uncomfortable to remember, and Leon feels a little foggy and uneasy. 

“You sure you’re not up for a game?” Connor says, lightly. “For the road?”

“You’re not tired?”

Connor shrugs. “Not really.”

“Uh — sure, then. Why not.” Leon draws himself up and perches on the end of the bed. 

“Rummy? It’s fast.” Connor deftly shuffles the deck. _You’ll be out of here quick_ , he doesn’t say, but Leon fills in the gaps. Too nice for his own good.

“Yeah, alright.” 

“Good meeting?” Connor asks, dealing them both a hand. 

“Sure,” Leon says. “Nothing special.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but, well. Leon didn’t give him a lot to work with. He’s never pretended to be much of a small-talker.

What must they look like, Leon thinks. Two idiots sitting playing a card game in the middle of the night and practically refusing to even look at each other. Connor dealt him a pretty shitty hand, too.

Connor’s fingers brush his when they both reach for the cards, and the thought comes to Leon suddenly and quite uninvited — he wants to be touching Connor. Not in any kind of way, just… the normal way. A friendly check to the shoulder in morning skate, a _hey-pay-attention-to-me_ tap on the shinpads during intermission, the long line of Connor’s thigh pressed to his on the plane. Honest contact, like a reminder that Connor’s real. He didn’t realise how much he touched Connor until he actively stopped doing it.

It’s been so long, Leon realises, since he last thoughtlessly threw his arm around Connor, and he misses it. He misses Connor. He’s been overthinking every interaction for too long. The space between them has gotten uncomfortably large.

Now really, really isn’t the time to talk this all out, though. In spite of Ryan’s hard work and bravery to trap them in the same room, it’s just — a bad time. They’re both worn-out and distracted — neither of them even really want to be here to begin with. Besides, it’s grim enough in the locker room without Leon dragging it down with this mess. Leon looks up at Connor, at the perpetual tense set of his face, how tired he looks. He feels a sharp pang of affection.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Leon asks, without thinking. It all comes out at once, and he’s surprised when Connor actually parses what he says. 

“Sure,” Connor says, slowly. He fixes Leon with a serious look.

“It’s, uh. It’s your turn,” Leon reminds him. 

Connor picks up and discards, not looking down at his hand. 

“You — you know how you kissed me a little while ago,” Leon dives right in, and he can almost feel the air change with how tense Connor suddenly becomes. “It’s kind of — gotten into my head a little bit. I don’t really know how to explain it. I think I have some kind of problem.”

Connor looks, suddenly, absolutely crestfallen. His mouth hangs open like he’s about to apologise, so Leon doesn’t give him the time. 

“It’s fine, it’s not — I’m not angry. I’m, uh. It’s just that — I guess I have some sort of thing for you that I need to figure out.”

When Leon was planning this part in his head, he could never explain himself quite right. He just doesn’t have the words for it. He looks up at Connor, but can’t do it, looks back down at his hand of cards. The numbers are all blurring together. He shakes his head. 

“I don’t know — feelings. It’s weird. It’s getting in the way.” He wants to laugh. It sounds so ridiculous, out loud. 

“Leon,” Connor starts. Leon waves his hand, stops him. 

“So I just wanted to say that, uh,” Leon swallows, “I get that, you know, sometimes the season gets lonely, but it’s probably best for team, uh, team cohesion long-term not to come to me about it.”

“Team cohesion,” Connor repeats. 

“I’m sure there’d be someone else,” Leon says, mildly. There’s no casual way to say _if you kissed me again, it might just ruin my life._

Connor doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together as he fiddles with one of his cards, runs his thumb around the corner of it. 

“You honestly think that’s why I did it?” Connor says, quietly, after a long moment. “Because I was lonely and you were, like. Convenient?”

“I mean, sure, ” Leon says. “Why else?”

Connor doesn’t enlighten him, and there’s another silence. Connor isn’t quite scowling, but he’s definitely mad about something. It’s easy to tell; Connor holds a lot of tension in his face and shoulders before he realises he’s doing it. He’s fidgeting, too — dog-earing the edge of one of the cards he’s holding and running his fingernail along the crease. Leon stops looking at Connor’s hands.

“What do you mean, _feelings_ ,” Connor says. 

This is a difficult question. Leon thinks, for a moment, about the best way to word it. A long moment. The problem is that _crush_ sounds slightly juvenile, and he’s not certain it’s exactly what he means. _Infatuation_ feels too dismissive. He wouldn’t be able to say _need_ , it’d be mortifying — but _want_ is too vague, because he’s not certain what, exactly, he wants.

Leon wants a lot. He wants to see Connor happy, he wants to take care of him. He wants Connor, sure. He wants him all the time, in any way he can get him; there’s no point in pretending he doesn’t, anymore. And he can’t parse where the line is between those things — where how he feels stops being platonic. The problem is that, depending on where he draws that line, he’s been non-platonically inclined towards Connor for longer than he’d realised, and just not clued in. Naturally, there’s only so many times you can think about sleeping with one of your friends before it starts to get a little suspect. It’d be nice if this was as simple as that, as just wanting to fuck Connor, because at least then he’d have a frame of reference for it. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Leon says, after exhausting everything else. It’s a weird thing to confess, mainly because it’s true. He doesn’t know where to look when he says it. “I mean, I want you. I want to kiss you again. And — you know. Everything else.” 

“Leon,” Connor says, but he doesn’t say anything more. Leon can’t place his tone, but he imagines it’s placating — _come on, you’re better than that_.

It’s just a little pathetic, is the thing. Leon’s become another person wanting things from Connor.

Leon can tell Connor’s uncomfortable. He knows Connor’s concealed-upset face very well; Connor has had a lot of practice with it.

“That’s — that’s all I wanted to say, anyway. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Leon says, doing his best to be flippant. 

“I, uh, wasn’t going to try anything again, so you don’t have to worry about that.” Connor says.

“Oh,” Leon replies. “Okay. Well — sorry for bringing it all up, then.”

Connor presses his lips together, frowns a little. Looks at his cards, then, very seriously. 

“Gin,” Connor says, after a minute, and oh, right. Leon had forgotten what he was even doing here in the first place. 

Connor lays all of his cards in front of him, after tossing a six of diamonds on the upcard pile. 

“Not bad,” Leon says, softly. He’d only had a run of twos and a whole bunch of deadwood. Honestly, he’s surprised Connor was paying attention to the game at all — evidently, he wasn’t half as rattled as Leon imagined. 

Connor picks up the piles of cards, tidying them up. 

“You want to know something funny,” Connor says, plainly. Leon looks at him, and he looks scraped-out, exhausted. 

“What?”

Connor exhales sharply, before he starts talking, already frustrated. “When I first got to the league, you could say that I had, uh. I might have had a feeling or two of my own. Regarding you.” Connor clears his throat. He’s not shuffling the deck, just turning it over and over in his hands. “And at the time… you know, I was like — this is just… whatever. I’m new, nervous, he’s handsome, I’ll get over it. I barely know this guy. Just don’t think about it, and it’ll stop. Besides, it’ll — it’ll get in the way.” Connor, voice a little hoarse, laughs.

Leon doesn’t blink. Connor’s not looking back, he’s looking almost anywhere else, but Leon can’t take his eyes off him, now. Connor’s mouth is slightly open, as if he might say something else. Leon can see a quirk in the corner of his lip, a little twitch like he’s trying to smile. 

“What’s the funny thing,” Leon says, quietly. 

“The funny thing is I never really — I never got over it.” Connor says. He meets Leon’s eyes, for a second, but looks past him, up at the ceiling. “I mean, I still — you know. It’s hard to say, isn't it? I still think about you a lot.” Connor shakes his head. "All the time."

He doesn’t look embarrassed, Leon notes. 

“Wow,” Connor says, bleakly. “Man. I always thought I’d feel better after saying it. This is bullshit.”

Leon smiles, just barely. He feels, slightly, like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Connor’s voice is just replaying in his head, like a stuck record — _when I first got to the league._ All this time. 

“Could you say something,” Connor says, quietly.

“Thanks for calling me handsome,” Leon replies. His throat is dry, and his voice is weak.

Connor rolls his eyes, and smiles a little, the corners of his mouth pinched like he’s trying not to.

“I’m sorry it’s making you feel bad,” Leon starts, but Connor shakes his head. 

“I don’t feel _bad_ , I just —” Connor’s mouth hardens, and he almost looks irritated. “I’m tired of it, you know? I’m so tired of it.” He sighs, harsh through his nose.

Connor hates being pitied, but Leon’s chest tightens a little anyway. 

“Tired of what?” Leon says. “If it’s the gay thing —” 

“It’s not the gay thing,” Connor says, quickly. He fidgets with his hoodie sleeve as he talks, tugging on a loose thread. “Not specifically. Would you believe I don’t really have the time for a sexuality crisis?” He laughs, a little punched-out. 

“What is it, then?”

“You wanna know?” Connor shakes his head again, bitter. “If you were anyone else, it’d be fine. You know? It might suck short-term, a little, but it’d be fine. ‘Cause I could play hockey and come home to someone and they’re separate. But it had to be you. And I have to see you everyday, and we play so well together, and I like you so much, and — it’s, like — I don’t know. It’s shitty. I have to keep telling myself to back off. You know? Stop it. Stop wanting anything more. Stop getting so close, stop _looking_ so much. Like — what the _hell_ am I thinking?”

“You’ve thought about this a lot.” Leon says. Of course he has. Connor’s always a few steps ahead. 

“That’s what I’m tired of,” Connor mumbles. “Constantly having to think about it. It’s not like anything’s ever going to happen.”

“Why did you kiss me, then?”

Connor doesn’t reply instantly. _Maybe that’s a mean question_ , Leon thinks. 

Then Connor sighs, shrugs just with one arm. “‘Cause I wanted to.”

That, for some reason, kind of hurts to hear. “Connor, I —” 

“Let’s just say it never happened,” Connor says, firmly. “Okay? I shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

Leon lets go of a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s smart.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, “it’s just — it’s messy. There’s a way things are supposed to be, you know?”

“No, yeah, sure.” Leon can almost see the mental plan Connor is drawing. _Here is who I am, here is what I am supposed to say, and do, and be._ He’s hazarding a guess that _secret gay crush on teammate_ isn’t accounted for anywhere.

To be fair, it’s not in his own plan, either. 

“So what?” Connor says. “What now?”

“You tell me,” Leon shrugs. “Seems like you already know what to do.”

Connor smiles, wry. Kind of pulled back, holding his tongue, trying not to say something else. “What else can we do? We ignore it.” 

“That seems like it’s working great for you so far.”

“Got any better ideas?” Connor’s sharp to reply.

“I’m fine if we drop it,” Leon says, briskly. “I wasn’t — I didn’t tell you because I was expecting something. I just needed to tell you. So I’m fine. As long as you stop avoiding me.”

Perhaps that was a little direct. Connor blinks. But he nods, slowly.

“We’ll probably be fine after the break, anyway. It’s been a long season. We probably just need some time apart. We might have gotten kind of dependent on each other.” Leon softens his voice a little.

“Yeah,” Connor says, sounding unconvinced. “Sure.”

“It’ll be fine,” Leon says. “We’ll be fine. It’s nearly over.” 

Connor nods. He doesn’t say anything else. It’s a loud quiet, and it feels like nobody speaks for a long time. 

“I—I should probably go,” Leon says. He scoops up his jacket. 

“Alright,” Connor says. He’s quick to change the subject. “Uh, which room are you in?”

“Uh, 252, I think?” Leon gets off the bed, fiddles with his shoes by the door. Connor follows him, and opens the door for him. 

“Oh, I meant to ask,” Connor says, hand on the door. “Do you think you’ll any press stuff here after the season’s over?” 

“I don’t know,” Leon says, tugging his jacket back on. “I don’t think I have time. I already booked my flight.”

“You can’t get out of here fast enough, huh,” Connor jokes. 

“Yep,” Leon says. He doesn’t have the energy to joke back. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but he also doesn’t have the energy to really care.

“You thinking about going to Worlds?”

Leon shrugs. “If they’ll have me, I guess.”

Connor scoffs. “Of course they’ll have you.”

“We’ll see,” Leon says. “Night, then.”

“Night.”

Leon is lingering in the doorway. He realises, belatedly, that he’s waiting for Connor to kiss him again. _What the fuck?_ He gives Connor a quick little nod and turns away, then waits to hear the click of the door shutting. 

That’s it, then. Leon takes deep breaths through pursed lips; counting up and counting down. _Calm down_. He doesn’t know why he feels so scrambled, all of a sudden. Like inertia hitting him out of nowhere. He checks his phone and it’s decently late, getting close to one, and they have a game tomorrow. 

He supposes he prefers the certainty of knowing that this — whatever it is — with Connor is over, definitely over, rather than the uncertainty of not knowing anything. But at least, with uncertainty, he could entertain the possibility of —

Of what? Of what — fucking _dating_? _Don’t be an idiot._

Leon’s only down the hall, but he drags his feet. Counting carpet tiles, counting doorknobs. His phone buzzes, sudden and insistent, when he’s just outside his room door. _Who the hell is_ _calling_ —

Connor. Leon slides his phone unlocked.

“Leon?”

“Yeah?” his voice is very quiet in the hallway.

“Leon,” Connor says, voice phone-tinny and far away, “can you come back. Please.”

Leon knows what he’s asking. 

He could say no. He could say no, go to bed, and wake up, and this conversation never happened. God knows Connor would never, ever mention it again. Go to bed, wake up, morning skate, play the game, go through the motions, and then get on a plane and leave the country and nothing ever happened. Go to bed, and Connor is still the best player in the world, and his teammate, and his friend, and that’s enough. 

“Okay,” Leon says. 

When he gets back to Connor’s room, Connor opens the door before Leon even has a chance to knock. Connor looks straight at him, and Leon is briefly struck a little dumb, before he walks in. Connor shuts the door behind him. Circling him, like he’s sizing him up. Like he’s seeing him for the first time. It’s almost intimidating — Connor has more of a death stare than he gives himself credit for. The air between them is thick, tense. No noise, except for the distant hum of the radiator and the low buzz of the TV. 

“I —” Connor starts, but Leon cuts him off, closing the distance between them to kiss him. He knows why he’s here. He knows what he wants, and, for once, he has a pretty good idea of what Connor wants, too. 

It’s no time at all before Connor has a hand curled roughly in Leon’s shirt, tugging him closer. Kissing him all the while. Connor’s mouth opens up gratifyingly fast. Leon’s ended up pressing Connor right up against the door — probably not the smartest idea, but right now, smart ideas are not his number one priority. Right now, he’s just wondering why a minute ever goes by that he’s _not_ touching Connor.

Connor kisses him like he’s in a hurry. Now that they’re close, he’s restless, grabbing all over Leon’s front, under and over his jacket, like he’s trying to map him with his hands. It’s sweet, but distracting, pulling Leon in too many different directions.

“Fuck,” Leon whispers. When he pulls away to talk he can’t look at Connor, not even in the dark. He might be imagining it, but he thinks he can feel Connor's hands shaking. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Connor exhales a little, stuttered, like he’s forcing it. His hands are curled tight in the collar of Leon’s jacket. His lip catches the light, the shine of spit there. 

“God, you have no idea —” Connor cuts himself off with a sharp, surprised gasp through his teeth, when Leon slides a hand up his shirt.

Leon doesn’t try anything, though, just presses his palm flat to the band of muscle along Connor’s oblique. It’s tense there, like the rest of him, but his skin is warm. Leon slides his hand to cup the slight dip of his waist. When he swipes his thumb across Connor’s skin, he can feel the jump of muscle in Connor’s stomach; his breathing is already so fast. Leon’s almost zoning out a little bit, just from that, at that one innocuous place he’s touching Connor, but if he checks out he won’t remember anything properly. This isn’t going to happen again. He knows that much. He wants to remember as much of it as he can. 

Connor’s got his head tilted into the side of Leon’s face, mouth to the curve of his jaw. Nudging him, like he’s angling to be kissed again. Leon kisses him, of course. He can’t think about doing anything else. He’s close enough to feel the rattle of deep, steadying breaths Connor’s trying to take. He won’t pull away from Leon for long enough, though, and it’s endearing. Connor’s a good kisser. Now he’s calmed down a little, he kisses like he does everything else; earnestly and thoroughly, as if there’s a way to do it right. 

Connor’s hands are roaming around with purpose, now. He tucks one finger into one of Leon’s belt loops, which is very cute, and it would be convincingly sultry if he didn’t just almost shake apart at Leon touching his bare skin. He tugs Leon closer, and their hips meet, and Connor’s hard in his sweatpants, and Leon’s head is spinning. He’s hard too, of course, had been embarrassingly quickly since Connor’s mouth opened so easily against his own. 

Leon slots his thigh between Connor’s, presses against him, and gets a gratifying full-body flinch from the pressure. Just from that, that bare little pressure has Connor tensing up. Like he wasn’t expecting this to happen. Leon can’t quite amp himself up to just do the deed and get his hand on Connor’s dick — too soon, somehow — so he rucks Connor’s shirt up and circles Connor’s waist with both hands. He can feel the two faint juts of Connor’s ribs under his thumbs. Long season. He traces the lines of Connor’s back, the dip of his spine. 

It feels like a lucid dream. Leon’s just waiting to wake up and none of this has ever happened. All of those weird passing little whims that he’d usually dismiss, he can just — act on them. He wants to kiss Connor’s neck, so he does it. He wants to run a finger up the bumps of Connor’s spine, so he does it. He presses his lips to the divot of Connor’s collarbone, the soft white skin of his neck, and Connor slumps against him, pressing them together from hip to shoulder. 

He wants to give Connor a hickey, but that’s not — that’s too much. He’s enough in his right mind to know that that isn’t smart. Leaving something behind isn’t smart. If they’re careful, there’ll be no way to know any of this happened, and they can just ignore it. The feeling of Connor’s hips knocking erratically into his own makes Leon feel desperately possessive, though. Leon wants to give him everything. He wants to take Connor apart and put him back together. 

“Leon, _Leon_ , shit,” Connor’s breath coming fast and urgent now, when he pulls away. “Fuck, _wait_ — wait, can you —” his voice cracks, and he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead closing his hands around Leon’s wrists.

“What — what?” Leon lets Connor tug his hands away and hold them in the gap between their bodies.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Connor says, all at once.

“Are you kidding me?” Leon says, catching his breath. There’s a short, cold silence. Leon almost wants to laugh. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Why’d you come, then?” Connor’s voice is brittle and strained.

“Same reason you called me.” 

Leon can hear Connor swallow, and feel how his hands are shaking where they’re holding on to Leon’s wrists. They’re touching in too many places, now, all tangled together. 

“We really — we should stop,” Connor says, very quietly. “This is just going to make it worse.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, you’re right.” Speaking feels weird, Leon thinks. It physically feels weird to speak so carefully when, half a second ago, he’d been kissing Connor like his life depended on it. “It’s already making it worse.”

Connor lets go of Leon’s wrists. He tilts his head back, against the door, and breathes out in a long, slow whistle. 

“Fuck,” Connor mumbles, “this is a mess.”

“Don’t start with that shit,” Leon says. He tugs Connor’s shirt down from where he pushed it up. He considers making a joke about how this isn’t even the worst thing to happen to the Oilers this season, but perhaps now isn’t the time.

“I didn’t want to make things weird and look what I go and do,” Connor mumbles, more to himself than anything. 

Leon doesn’t say anything. Once Connor’s started self-flagellating, it’s almost impossible to get him to stop, so Leon doesn’t try. He untangles his legs from Connor’s, straightens himself up and clears his throat. He can’t imagine what he must look like; his mouth and chin feel sensitive and warm, and he can feel the ghosts of Connor’s hands all over. He stands back from Connor for a long while, letting the air cool between them, while Connor’s still slumped against the door, taking deep breaths. 

“You okay?” Leon asks, softly. 

“Yeah. Yeah, just, you know, uh.” Connor takes a deep breath. “Long day.” He steps aside, walks to Leon’s side, letting him get to the door. “You’re, uh. You're not mad at me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Leon says. “Of course I’m not mad at you.” 

“Okay,” Connor says. “Okay. And — we’re dropping it for real, now, right?” 

“Yeah, we are,” Leon says. He leans and gives Connor a friendly kiss on the cheek. 

“Alright, get out of here,” Connor says, and Leon, thankfully, can hear the smile in his voice. 

Leon shuts the door behind himself, and doesn’t look back. He falls asleep without jacking off. He fully intends to, when he gets back to his hotel room, but exhaustion hits him like a freight train and he passes out. 

* * *

Leon wakes up, quite disoriented, to a text from Connor; a text that’s vague enough just to be a morning check-in. Vague enough that, if he had to read back through their texts to find an address or something, he wouldn’t even pause. 

_You good?_

Leon replies with precisely eleven kiss-mark emojis.

_You better not be late then or i’m kicking your ass. You’re getting 50 tonight or so help me god_

* * *

In warmups, Leon stickhandles in a tight circle around Connor, feeling out the flex in his wrists. He feels good — better than he thought he’d feel, better than the last game. Light, focused. All tuned in, no static in his brain. When he’s done, he whips the puck through Connor’s legs. Connor barely notices; Leon can hear Connor mumbling something to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Hey, buddy,” Leon says, drawing himself up and lazily skating around Connor.

“Hey,” Connor replies. He looks fine, thankfully. Faintly nauseous, but that’s not particularly out of the ordinary. 

“Feeling good?”

“Like a million bucks.” 

Leon feels a quiet wave of fondness. He gives Connor a friendly shoulder bump. Then, when he’s coasting behind him, he untucks Connor’s jersey from the back of his pads. It always gets caught there, during games — something to do with the specific kind of pants Connor wears? — and Leon usually suppresses the urge to just pull it untucked, but. Why not. 

He expects Connor to rib him about it when he skates back around his other side. Instead, Connor gives him a tiny, private little smile, promptly followed by a brisk whack on the thigh with his stick.

“Quit bugging me and go and shoot some pucks,” Connor says. “Hustle, hustle.”

“Okay, okay,” Leon says, and skates off, filled with purpose. 

**Author's Note:**

> and...well...we all know what happened at that game :(
> 
> i shit you not though when i say that i looked up how many fights ryan nugent-hopkins had been in several times and the number CHANGED EVERY TIME.... so please forgive that particular inaccuracy... also, please let me know if ive made a rating mistake. the rules for what is T and what is M are surprisingly loose.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Shared Looking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636121) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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